Blackadder Meets HP4: Private Plane
by Juniper Baggant
Summary: The Great War rages and Draco Malfoy is at the front line! Can he deal with battle, capture, and those annoying songs with the word 'whoops' in the title? Most importantly, can he deal with Harry Potter? Featuring Bitter!Draco and Oversexed!Harry.


Blackadder Meets HP4: Private Plane

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DISCLAIMER: Based on the HP books by J.K. Rowling and the 'Private Plane' episode from Blackadder Goes Forth. No money is being made and no copyrights are being infringed.

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Scene 1: Draco Malfoy's Dugout

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(Captain Draco Malfoy is trying to sleep. Spells being fired outside are causing him to stay awake. Annoyed, Malfoy storms outside.)

Scene 2: In the Trench

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(Lt. Vincent Crabbe is in the trench, peering through a pair of binoculars across No Man's Land.)

Malfoy: Oh, Merlin, why do they bother?

Crabbe: Well, it's to kill the Death Eaters, isn't it, Sir?

Malfoy: Yes, but the Death Eaters are safe underground in stone dungeons. We've shot off over a million _stupefy_ spells and what's the result? One niffler with a slight limp!

(Malfoy yells at the aurors.)

Malfoy: Shut up!

(Spellfire ceases. Crabbe looks bemused.)

Malfoy: Thank you! Right, I'm off to bed where I intend to sleep until my name changes to Rip Van Malfoy.

(Malfoy goes into his dugout.)

Scene 3: Malfoy's Dugout

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(Malfoy lies down on his cot. An instant after his head touches the pillow there is the sound of swooshing brooms and spell fire from outside. Malfoy rises from his cot.)

Malfoy: Oh, Merlin! Bloody Death Eaters! They can't take a joke, can they? Just because we take a few pot shots at them, they have to have an air raid to get their own back. Where is our air force? (Malfoy moves over to the table and picks up some floo powder. He goes over to the fireplace.) They're meant to defend us against this sort of thing. (Noise outside continues. Malfoy puts on steel helmet and bends down to talk into the fireplace.) Right, that's it! Hello? Yes, yes, I'd like to leave a message for the head of the Flying Corps, please. That's Air Chief Marshall Charles Weasley, VC, DFC and bar. Message reads, "Where are you, you bastard?"

(Private Gregory Goyle enters the dugout.)

Goyle: Here I am, Sir.

(Malfoy gets his head out of the fireplace.)

Malfoy: For Merlin's sake, Goyle, take cover.

Goyle: Why's that, Sir?

Malfoy: Because there's an air raid going on and I don't want to have to write to your mother at London Zoo and tell her that her only human child is dead.

(Goyle moves under the table with Malfoy.)

Goyle: All right, Sir. It's just that I didn't know there was an air raid on. I couldn't hear anything over the noise of the terrific display by our wonderful boys of the Magical Flying Corps, Sir.

Malfoy: What?

(Crabbe enters the dugout.)

Crabbe: I say, those chaps can't half thunder in their airborne steeds, can't they just?

(Crabbe notices Malfoy and Goyle cowering under the table.)

Crabbe: Oh, hello, what's going on here? Game of hide and seek? Excellent! Right, now, I'll go and count to a hundred. Er, no. Better make it five, actually . . .

Malfoy: Crabbe . . .

Crabbe: Er. Oh, it's sardines. Oh, excellent! That's my favorite one, that.

(Malfoy rises from under the table.)

Malfoy: Crabbe . . .

Crabbe: Yes, Sir?

Malfoy: Shut up, and never say anything again as long as you live.

Crabbe: Right you are, Sir.

(Malfoy removes helmet. Crabbe is quiet for a few seconds.)

Crabbe: Crikey, but what a show it was, Sir, Lord Potter's Flying Aces. How we cheered when they spun. How we shouted when they dived. How we applauded when one chap got sliced in half by his own spell. Well, it's all part of the joke for those magnificent men on their flying machines.

(Sound of broom plummeting, and then crashing outside.)

Malfoy: For 'magnificent men', read 'biggest showoffs since Gilderoy Lockhart gave his symposium, 'Why I'm So Fabulous'. I don't care how many times they go up-diddly-up-up, they're still gits!

Goyle: Oh, come on, Sir! I'd love to be a flier. Up there where the air is clear.

Malfoy: The chances of the air being clear anywhere near you, Goyle, are zero!

Goyle: Oh, Sir. It'd be great, swooping and diving.

(Goyle starts his impression of a Stealth Firebolt.)

Malfoy: Goyle . . .(Goyle drones on ). . . Goyle . . .(Goyle stops droning on as Malfoy interjects a third time.) Goyle, what are you doing?

Goyle: I'm a Stealth Firebolt, Sir.

Malfoy: Oh, it is a Stealth Firebolt. Ah, right, I always get confused between the sound of a Stealth Firebolt and the sound of a malodorous prat wasting everybody's time. Now if you can do without me in the nursery for a while, I'm going to get some fresh air.

(Malfoy leaves the dugout, picking up his cigarettes on the way out.)

Scene 4: In the Trench

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(As he emerges from the dugout Malfoy sighs and prepares to light his cigarette. Squadron Commander Lord Harry Potter jumps down from his crashed broom.)

Potter: Ha! Eat knuckle, Arsehole!

(Potter knocks Malfoy to the ground with his fist, and then puts a foot on Malfoy's chest.)

Potter: Aha! How disgusting. A Death Eater on the sole of my boot. I shall have to find a patch of grass to wipe it on. Probably get shunned in the Officers' Mess. Sorry about the pong you fellows, trod in a Death Eater and can't get rid of the whiff.

(Potter removes his foot and Malfoy rises.)

Malfoy: Do you think we could dispense with the hilarious doggy-doo metaphor for a moment? I'm not a Death Eater. This is a Hogwart trench.

Potter: Is it? Oh, that's a piece of luck. Thought I'd landed on the wrong side! Ha! (Potter slaps Malfoy on the back and picks up some floo powder lying by the dugout entrance.) Mind if I use your fire? If word gets out that I'm missing, five hundred girls will kill themselves. I wouldn't want them on my conscience, not when they ought to be on my face! Huh! (Potter starts the floo connection.) Hi, Potter here. Yeah, cancel the state funeral, tell the Minister to stop blubbing. Potter is not dead. Yeah, I dumped the 'bolt on the proles, so send a car. Er, General Fudge's driver should do. She hangs around with the big nobs, so she'll be used to a fellow like me! Woof, woof!

Malfoy: Look; do you think you could make your obscene call somewhere else?

(Potter is still on the floo and ignores Malfoy.)

Potter: No, not in half an hour, you rubber-desk johnny. Send the bitch with the wheels right now or I'll fly back to England and give your wife something to hang her towels on. (Potter cuts off the connection and turns to Malfoy.) Okay, dig out your best booze and let's talk about me 'til the car comes. You must be pretty impressed having Squadron Commander the Lord Potter drop in on your squalid bit of line.

Malfoy: Actually, no. I was more impressed by the contents of my handkerchief the last time I blew my nose.

Potter: Yeah, like hell. Huh, huh. You've probably got little piccies of me on the walls of your dugout, haven't you? (Potter tickles the front of Malfoy's trousers.) I bet you go all girly and giggly every time you look at me. (Potter twists Malfoy's groin. Malfoy yelps.)

Malfoy: I'm afraid not. Unfortunately, most of the infantry think you're a prat. Ask them who they'd prefer to meet: Squadron Commander Potter or the man who cleans out the public toilets in Aberdeen, and they'd go for Wee Jock "Poo-Pong" McPlop, every time.

(Potter laughs, and then punches Malfoy, knocking him to the ground.)

(Potter goes into the dugout.)

Scene 5: Malfoy's Dugout

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(Crabbe and Goyle are discussing the Flying Aces.)

Crabbe: ... so when that fellow looped-the-loop, I honestly thought that, that, that . . .

(Potter enters, saluting. Crabbe sees him. Malfoy enters behind Potter.)

Crabbe: My God!

Potter: Yes, I suppose I am.

Crabbe: Lord Potter, this is the greatest honor of my life. I hope I snuff it right now to preserve this moment forever.

Malfoy: It can be arranged.

Goyle: Lord Potter, I want to learn to write so I can send a letter home about this golden moment.

Potter: So all the fellows hate me, eh? Not a bit of it. I'm your bloody hero, eh, old scout?

(Potter playfully scuffs up Goyle's hair, then notices that this action has left something unpleasant on his glove.)

Potter: Merlin!

(Potter wipes his glove on Malfoy's shirt.)

Goyle: My Lord, I've got every chocolate frog card they ever printed of you. My whole family took up eating them just so that we could get the whole set. My grandmother gave herself diabetes so we could afford the album.

Potter: Of course she did, of course she did, the poor love-crazed old octogenarian.

(Potter moves to hug and kiss Goyle, than thinks better of it.)

Potter: Well, all right, you fellows. Let's sit us down and yarn about how amazingly attractive I am.

Malfoy: Yes, would you excuse me for a moment? I've got some urgent business. There's a bucket outside I've got to be sick into.

(Malfoy exits.)

Potter: All right, you chaps, let's get comfy.

(Potter sits down in chair. Crabbe sits down on Malfoy's cot. Potter turns to Goyle.)

Potter: You look like a decent Wizarding bloke. I'll park the old booties on you if that's okay.

Goyle: It would be an honor, my Lord.

(Goyle kneels down on all fours in front of Potter.)

Potter: Of course it would! Ha!

(Potter rests his feet on Goyle's back and sighs.)

Potter: Have you any idea what it's like to have the wind rushing through your hair?

Crabbe: No, Sir.

(Potter farts in Goyle's face.)

Potter: He has!

Scene 6: Malfoy's Dugout

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(Some time has elapsed. Potter is regaling an enthralled Crabbe with stories. Malfoy is reading a copy of 'The Daily Prophet' at the table, uninterested in what Potter has to say.)

Potter: . . . so I flew straight through her bedroom window, popped a box of chocs on the dressing table, wrote my address on the wall, and then shot off and shagged her sister.

(As Crabbe cracks up, Driver Ginny Weasley enters the dugout.)

GWeasley: Ahem. Driver Weasley reporting for duty, my Lord . . .

Potter: Well, well, well, if it isn't little Ginny Weasley-- saucier than a direct hit on a Heinz factory.

GWeasley: I've come to pick you up.

Potter: Well, that's how I like my girls--direct and to my point. Woof!

(Potter removes his feet from Goyle, grabs GWeasley and puts her across his lap and begins to snog her. During the snog Malfoy sarcastically checks his watch.)

Potter: Ah! Tally ho, then! Back to the bar. You should join the Flying Corps, Crabbe. That's the way to fight a war. Tasty tuck, soft beds and a uniform so smart it's got a PhD from Cambridge. (Potter gestures at Goyle.) You could even bring the breath monster here. Anyone can be a navigator if he can tell his arse from his elbow.

Malfoy: Well, that's Goyle out, I fear . . .

Potter: We're always looking for talented types to join the Twenty Minuters.

Malfoy: . . . and there goes Crabbe.

(Potter rises from the chair, lifting GWeasley in his arms.)

Potter: Tally ho, then, Ginny. Hush, here comes a whiz-bang and I think you know what I'm talking about! Woof!

GWeasley: Woof!

(Potter and GWeasley leave.)

(Goyle and Crabbe stand.)

Crabbe: I say, Sir. What a splendid notion. The Twenty Minuters. Soft tucker, tasty beds, fluffy uniforms.

Goyle: Begging your permission, Sir, but why do they call them the Twenty Minuters?

Crabbe: Ah, now, yes, (Crabbe moves across the dugout to get his card album.) . . . now this one is in my Bertie Botts 'Book of the Air'. (Crabbe returns to the cot and sits down.) Now, you have to collect all the cards and then stick them into this wonderful presentation booklet. Er . . . (Goyle sits down next to Crabbe.) Ah, here we are: Twenty Minuters. Oh, damn! Haven't got the card yet. Ah, but the caption says 'Twenty minutes is the average amount of time new pilots spend in the air.'

Malfoy: Twenty minutes.

Crabbe: That's right, Sir.

Malfoy: I had a twenty-hour watch yesterday, with four hours overtime, in two feet of water.

(Crabbe and Goyle rise from the cot and move to the table.)

Crabbe: Well then, for goodness sake, Sir, why don't we join?

Goyle: Yeah, be better than just sitting around here all day on our elbows.

Malfoy: No thank you. No thank you. I have no desire to hang around with a bunch of delinquents, do twenty minutes work, and then spend the rest of the day loafing about in Paris drinking gallons of firewhisky and having dozens of moist, pink, highly-experienced young French girls galloping up and down my . . . Hang on!

Scene 7: Captain Percy Weasley's Office

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(Captain PWeasley is writing at his desk. There is a knock at the office door.)

PWeasley: Come in! (Malfoy enters the office.) Ah, Captain Malfoy.

Malfoy: Good morning, Captain Weasley.

PWeasley: What do you want?

Malfoy: You're looking so well.

PWeasley: I'm a busy man, Malfoy. Let's hear it, whatever it is.

Malfoy: Well, you know, Weasley, every . . . every man has a dream . . .

PWeasley: Hmmm . . .

Malfoy: . . . and when I was a small boy, I used to watch the Magical Flying Corps practicing, and I remember thinking 'Will I ever be able to do the same?' And you know . . .

(PWeasley rises from his desk.)

PWeasley: Oh, you want to join the Magical Flying Corps?

Malfoy: Oh, that's a thought. Could I?

PWeasley: No, you couldn't! Goodbye!

(PWeasley sits back down.)

Malfoy: Look, come on, Weasley; just give me an application form.

PWeasley: It's out of the question. This is simply a ruse to waste five months of training after which you'll claim you can't battle fly after all because it makes your ears go 'pop'. Come on, I wasn't born yesterday, Malfoy.

Malfoy: More's the pity; we could have started your personality from scratch. So, the training period is five months, is it?

PWeasley: It's no concern of yours if it's five years and comes with a free holiday in Tunisia, contraceptives supplied. Besides, they wouldn't admit you. It's not easy getting transfers, you know.

(PWeasley returns to his work.)

Malfoy: Oh, you've tried it yourself, have you?

(PWeasley breaks his quill.)

PWeasley: No, I haven't.

Malfoy: Trust you to try and skive off to some cushy option.

PWeasley: There's nothing cushy about life in the Children's Auxiliary Flying Corps.

(Malfoy raises his eyebrows at this.)

PWeasley: Ah . . .

(The door to General Cornelius Fudge's office opens and Fudge and Crabbe enter. Malfoy and PWeasley snap to attention. Malfoy salutes.)

Crabbe: . . . and then the werewolf said, "I'm awfully sorry, I didn't realize you meant organist."

(Fudge chortles.)

Fudge: Thank you, Crabbe. At ease, everyone. Now, where's my map? Come on.

PWeasley: Sir!

(PWeasley hands Fudge his map.)

Fudge: Thank you. (Fudge unfurls the map the wrong way.) Merlin, it's a barren, featureless desert out there, isn't it?

PWeasley: The other side, Sir!

(Fudge turns the map over. Malfoy turns to Crabbe.)

Malfoy: Hello, Crabbe. What are you doing here?

Crabbe: Me, Sir? I just popped in to join the Magical Flying Corps.

(Fudge looks up from his map.)

Fudge: Hello, Malfoy. What are you doing here?

Malfoy: Me, Sir? I just popped in to join the Magical Flying Corps.

PWeasley: And, of course, I said . . .

Fudge: Bravo, I hope, Weasley. Because, you know, I've always had my doubts about you former-Death-Eater-type fellows. Always suspected there might be a bit too much of the battle-dodging, nappy-wearing, I'd-rather-have-a-cup-of-tea-than-charge-stark-naked-at-Voldemort about you. But if you're willing to join the Twenty Minuters then you're all right by me and welcome to marry my niece any day.

PWeasley: Are you sure about that, Sir?

Fudge: Certainly, you should hear the noise she makes when she eats a boiled egg. Be glad to get her out of the house. So, report back here 09:00 hours for your basic training.

Scene 8: PWeasley's Office

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(It is the next morning. PWeasley's office has been set out with chairs and there is a blackboard with a chalk picture of a Stealth Firebolt on it. Malfoy and Crabbe are in the front row of seats. There are three other trainees. PWeasley is at his desk at the back.)

Crabbe: Crikey! I'm looking forward to today. Up-diddly-up, down-diddly-down, whoops-poop, twiddly-dee, a decent scrap with the fiendish Bellatrix LeStrange, a bit of a jolly old crash landing behind enemy lines, capture, torture, escape and then back home in time for tea and medals.

Malfoy: Crabbe, who's using the family brain-cell at the moment? This is just the beginning of the training. The beginning of five long months of very clever, very dull men looking at equipment.

(Potter is heard in the corridor.)

Potter: Hey, girls! Look at my equipment!

(The sound of screaming women is heard from the corridor. Potter enters PWeasley's office, zipping up his fly. He is carrying a stick. All present rise to attention.)

Potter: Enter a man who has no underwear. Ask me why.

All except Malfoy: Why do you have no underwear, Lord Potter?

Potter: Because the pants haven't been built yet that'll take the job on! (Potter performs a groinal thrust.) And that's the type of guy who's doing the training around here. Sit down! (All sit. Potter notices Malfoy.) Well, well, well, well, well, if it isn't old Captain Ferret.

Malfoy: Malfoy.

Potter: Couldn't resist it, eh, Ferret? Told you you thought I was great. All right men, let's do-oo-oo it! The first thing to remember is: always treat your 'bolt . . . (Potter taps the picture of the Stealth Firebolt with his stick.) . . . like you treat your woman! (Potter whips the air with his cane.)

Crabbe: How, how do you mean, Sir? Do you mean, do you mean take her home at weekends to meet your mother?

Potter: No, I mean get on her five times a day and take her to heaven and back.

Malfoy: I'm beginning to see why the Suffragette Movement wanted the vote.

Potter: Hey, hey! Any bird that wants to chain herself to my railings and suffer a jet movement gets _my_ vote. Er, right. Well, I'll see you in ten minutes for take-off.

(Potter begins to leave.)

Malfoy: Hang on, hang on! What about the months of training?

Potter: Hey, wet-pants! This isn't the Children's Auxiliary Flying Corps. You're in the Twenty Minuters now.

(PWeasley stands up.)

PWeasley: Er, Sir . . .

Potter: Yes . . .

PWeasley: . . . Sir!

Potter: . . . Prat at the back!

PWeasley: I think we'd all be intrigued to know why you're called the Twenty Minuters.

Crabbe: Oh, Mister Thicko. Imagine not knowing that.

Potter: Well, it's simple! The average life expectancy for a new flier is twenty minutes.

PWeasley: Ah . . .

(PWeasley sits.)

Malfoy: Life expectancy . . . of twenty minutes . . .

Potter: That's right. Goggles on, chocks away, last one back's a homo! Hurray!

(Potter runs out of the room.)

Trainee Fliers: Hurray!

(Trainee Fliers run after Potter.)

Malfoy: So, we take off in ten minutes, we're in the air for twenty minutes, which means we should be dead by twenty five to ten.

(PWeasley rises and moves to the door.)

PWeasley: I shouldn't worry about it too much, Malfoy, Battle flying is all about navigation. As long as you've got a good navigator I'm sure you'll be fine. (PWeasley sniggers as he opens the door to reveal Goyle in flying gear. Goyle enters and PWeasley leaves.)

Scene 9: In the Air

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(Malfoy and Goyle are flying on a pair of Stealth Firebolts. Crabbe is on another Firebolt.)

Malfoy: Actually, they're right. This is a doddle.

Goyle: Careful, Sir!

Malfoy: (Dodges a spell.) Whoops, whoops, a little wobble there. I'll get the hang of it, don't worry. All right.

Goyle: What's this?

(Goyle stands on his broom.)

Malfoy: Goyle! Goyle! Will you stop arsing about and get back on the broom!

Goyle: Ooh, ooh, ooh! Hey, Sir, I can see a pretty black broom from up here. Ha ha! Woo woo!

Bellatrix LeStrange: Die, Bastards! Ha ha ha!

(LeStrange shoots out the tails on Malfoy and Goyle's brooms.)

Malfoy: Oh no! Watch out, Goyle, it's stood right on our tail. Yes, now this is developing into a distinctly boring situation, but we're still on our side of the line so we'll crash-land and claim our ears went 'pop' first time out.

Goyle: Ooh, let's hope we fall on something soft!

Malfoy: Fine. Let's try and aim between General Fudge's ears!

Scene 10: A Death Eater Prison Cell

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(Malfoy is pacing about the cell. Goyle is seated.)

Malfoy: I don't believe it, a Death Eater prison cell. For two and a half years the Death Eater Army has been as likely to move as a Frenchman who lives next door to a brothel, and last night the Death Eaters advance a mile and we land on the wrong side.

Goyle: Ooh, dear, Captain, my tummy's gone all squirty.

Malfoy: That means you're scared, Goyle, and you're not the only one. I couldn't be more petrified if a wild rhinoceros had just come home from a hard day at the swamp and found me wearing his pajamas, smoking his cigars and in bed with his wife.

Goyle: I've heard what these Death Eaters will do, Sir. They'll have their wicked way with anything of woman-born.

Malfoy: Well, in that case, Goyle, you're quite safe. However, their reputation for brutality is well founded: their favorite operas last three or four days; and they literally don't know the meaning of the word 'fluffy'.

Goyle: I want my mum!

Malfoy: Yes, it'd be good to see her. I should imagine a maternally outraged gorilla could be a useful ally when it comes to the final scrap.

(Footsteps are heard outside the cell.)

Malfoy: Prepare to die like a man, Goyle.

(Goyle stands.)

Malfoy: Or as close as you can come to a man without actually shaving the palms of your hands.

(The door opens and Wormtail enters.)

Wormtail: Good evening. I am Wormtail. I have a message from Bellatrix LeStrange, the greatest living Death Eater.

Malfoy: Which, considering that her competition consists entirely of a bunch of wankers kissing the ass of an insane reptile, is no great achievement.

Wormtail: Quiet!

(Wormtail slaps Goyle across the face with his magical hand. Goyle falls against the wall.)

Malfoy: And what is your message?

Wormtail: It is: Prepare for a fate worse than death, flying fellow.

Malfoy: Oh. So, it's the traditional warm Death Eater welcome.

Wormtail: Correct. Also, she says: Do not try to escape or you will suffer even worse.

Malfoy: A fate worse than a fate worse than death? Sounds pretty bad.

Scene 11: PWeasley's Office

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(Crabbe and PWeasley are arguing loudly, there is confused chatter.)

Crabbe: Yes well, you see, it's all very well for you, isn't it, sitting here behind yer, behind yer, behind yer comfy desk.

PWeasley: Don't you take that tone with me, Lieutenant, or I'll have you on a charge for insubordination.

Crabbe: Well, I'd rather be on a charge for insubordination than on a charge of deserting a friend.

PWeasley: How dare you talk to me like that!

Crabbe: How dare I . . .?

(Fudge, attracted by the noise, enters from his office.)

Fudge: Now, then, now then, now, now, then, now then, now then, then now, now, now then. What's going on here?

PWeasley: That damn fool Malfoy has crashed his broom behind enemy lines, Sir. This young idiot wants to go and try rescuing him. It's a total waste of men and equipment.

Crabbe: He's not a damn fool, Sir; he's a bloody hero.

Fudge: All right. All right, all right, all right. I'll deal with this, Weasley. Delicate touch needed, I fancy.

(Fudge takes Crabbe over to the fireplace.)

Fudge: Now, Crabbe. Do you remember when I came down to visit you when you were a nipper for your sixth birthday? You used to have a lovely little rabbit, beautiful little thing. Do you remember?

Crabbe: Flossy.

Fudge: That's right. Flossy. Do you remember what happened to Flossy?

Crabbe: You killed him.

Fudge: That's right. It was the kindest thing to do after he'd been run over by that car.

Crabbe: By your car, Sir.

Fudge: Yes, by my car. But that too was an act of mercy when you would remember that that dog had been set on him.

Crabbe: Your dog, Sir.

Fudge: Yes, yes, my dog. But what I'm trying to say, Crabbe, is that the state young Flossy was in after we'd scraped him off my front tire is very much the state that young Malfoy will be in now, if not very nearly dead, then very actually dead.

Crabbe: Permission for lip to wobble, Sir?

Fudge: Permission granted.

(Crabbe's lips wobble.)

Fudge: Stout fellow.

Crabbe: But surely, Sir, you must allow me to at least try and save him.

Fudge: No, Crabbe. It would be as pointless as trying to teach a woman the value of a good, forward defensive stroke. Besides, it would take a superman to get him out of there, not the kind of weed who blubs just because somebody gives him a slice of rabbit pie instead of birthday cake.

Crabbe: Well, I suppose you're right, Sir.

Fudge: Course I am. Now let's talk about something more jolly, shall we? Look, this is the amount of land we've recaptured since yesterday.

(Fudge and Crabbe move over to the map table.)

Crabbe: Oh, excellent.

Fudge: Er, what is the actual scale of this map, Weasley?

PWeasley: Er, one-to-one, Sir.

Fudge: Come again?

PWeasley: Er, the map is actually life-size, Sir. It's superbly detailed. Look, look, there's a little worm.

Fudge: Oh, yes. So the actual amount of land retaken is?

(PWeasley whips out a tape measure and measures the table.)

PWeasley: Excuse me, Sir. Seventeen square feet, Sir.

Fudge: Excellent. So you see, young Malfoy didn't die horribly in vain after all.

Crabbe: If he did die, Sir.

Fudge: That's the spirit, Crabbe. If nothing else works, then a total pig-headed unwillingness to look facts in the face will see us through.

Scene 12: A Death Eater Prison Cell

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(Malfoy is seated. Goyle is sitting on the floor. There is a jangling of keys, the cell door opens and LeStrange enters.)

LeStrange: So! I am Bellatrix LeStrange and you are the two flying aces responsible for the spilling of the precious blood of many of my finest and my most pure-blooded friends. I have waited many months to do this.

(LeStrange kisses Malfoy on both cheeks.)

Malfoy: You may have been right, Goyle. Looks like we're going to get rogered to death after all.

Goyle: Do you want me to go first, Sir?

(LeStrange laughs.)

LeStrange: As an officer and a gentleman, you will be looking forward to a quick and noble death.

Malfoy: Well, obviously.

LeStrange: But, instead, an even worse fate awaits you. Tomorrow, you will be taken to Germany . . .

Malfoy: Here it comes!

LeStrange: . . . to a convent school, outside Heidelberg, where you will spend the rest of the war teaching the young girls home economics. For you, as a man of honor, the humiliation will be unbearable.

Malfoy: Oh, I think you'll find we're tougher than you imagine.

LeStrange: Ha! I can tell how much you are suffering by your long faces.

Malfoy: We're not suffering too much to say 'thank you'. Thank you. Say 'thank you', Goyle.

Goyle: Thank you, Goyle.

(LeStrange laughs.)

LeStrange: How amusing. But now, forgive me. I must take to the skies once again. The noble Lord Potter still eludes me.

Malfoy: I think you'll find he's overrated. Bad breath and . . . impotent, they say.

(LeStrange laughs.)

LeStrange: But enough of this. I must fly! Oh, and for the big one, if you get lonely in the night, I'm in the old chateau. There's no pressure.

(LeStrange leaves.)

Goyle: Is it really true, Sir? Is the war really over for us?

Malfoy: Yup! Out of the war and teaching nuns how to boil eggs. For us, the Great War is finito. A war that would be a damn sight simpler if we'd just stayed put and used _Avada Kedavra_ on fifty thousand of our men a week. No more mud, death, rats, whiz-bangs, and those bloody awful songs that have the word 'whoops' in the title.

(Malfoy notices that the cell door has been left ajar.)

Malfoy: Oh, damn! She's, she's left the door open.

Goyle: Oh, good! We can escape, Sir.

Malfoy: Are you mad, Goyle? I'll find someone to lock it for us.

(Malfoy opens the door to find Crabbe standing there.)

Crabbe: Ssh! Mum's the word! Not 'arf, or what?

(Malfoy shuts the door in Crabbe's face.)

Goyle: Sir, why did you just slam the door on Lieutenant Crabbe?

Malfoy: I can't believe it. Go away!

(Crabbe pushes the door open and enters the cell.)

Crabbe: It's me.

Malfoy: But what the hell are you doing here?

Crabbe: Oh, never mind the hows, and the whys and the do-you-mind-if-I-don'ts.

Malfoy: But it would have taken a superman to get in here.

Crabbe: Well, it's funny you should say that, because as it happens I did have some help from a rather spiffing bloke. He's taken a break from some crucial top-level shagging.

(Potter smashes through the cell door, swinging on a rope. As he lands, he trumpets his own arrival.)

Potter: It's me! Hurray!

Crabbe and Goyle: Hurray!

(Potter smashes Goyle in the face. Goyle falls to the floor.)

Potter: Merlin's potatoes, Crabbe. You said noble men were in the lurch. If I'd known you meant old Ferret and the mound of the hound of the Baskervilles, I'd probably have let them stew in their own juice. And let me tell you, if I ever tried that, I'd probably drown. Still, since I'm here, I may as well do-oo it. (Potter performs a groinal thrust.) Come on, chums!

(Potter runs out of the cell, followed by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy sits down and begins to moan, faking an injury.)

Malfoy: Aah! Ow! Aah!

(Potter runs back into the cell, followed by Crabbe and Goyle.)

Potter: Come on.

Malfoy: Yes, yes. Look, I'm sorry, chaps, but I've splintered my pancreas. Erm, and I seem to have this terrible cough. (Malfoy fakes a couple of coughs.) Coff-guards! Coff-guards!

Potter: Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait a minute. Now I may be packing the kind of tackle that you'd normally expect to find swinging about between the hind legs of a Grand National winner, but I'm not totally stupid, and I've got the kind of feeling you'd rather we hadn't come.

Malfoy: No, no, no, I'm very grateful. It's just that I'd slow you up.

Potter: I think I'm beginning to understand.

Malfoy: Are . . . are you?

Potter: Just because I can give multiple orgasms to the furniture just by sitting on it, doesn't mean that I'm not sick of this damn war: the blood, the noise, and the endless poetry.

Malfoy: Is that really what you think, Potter?

(Potter whips out his wand and threatens Malfoy.)

Potter: Course it's not what I think. Now get out that door before I redecorate that wall an interesting new color called 'hint of brain'.

Malfoy: Excellent. Well, that's clear. Let's get back to that lovely war, then!

Potter: Woof!

Crabbe: Woof!

Goyle: Bark!

(As the group moves to leave, LeStrange appears at the cell door.)

LeStrange: Not so fast, Malfoy.

Malfoy: Oh, damn! Foiled again! What bad luck!

(LeStrange enters the cell.)

LeStrange: Ah, and the Lord Potter. This is indeed an honor. Finally, the two greatest fliers in the world meet. Two of honor, who have jousted together in the cloud-strewn glory of the skies, face to face at last. How often I have rehearsed this moment of destiny in my dreams, the panoply to encapsulate the unspoken nobility of a comradeship.

(Potter uses _Avada Kedavra_ on LeStrange.)

Potter: What a bitch! Come on!

(All exit the cell, cheering.)

Scene 13: PWeasley's Office

----------------------------------

(PWeasley is dusting the office door. Malfoy opens the door in PWeasley's face.)

Malfoy: Hello, Weasley.

(PWeasley retreats backwards towards his desk as Malfoy enters.)

PWeasley: Good Lord. Captain Malfoy. I thought, I thought you were . . .

Malfoy: Playing Quidditch?

PWeasley: No.

Malfoy: Dead?

PWeasley: Well, yes, unfortunately.

Malfoy: Well, I had a lucky escape, no thanks to you. This is a friend of mine.

(Potter is standing on Weasley's desk. Weasley turns around and finds himself staring at Potter's crotch.)

PWeasley: Argh!

Potter: Hi, creep. (Potter jumps down from the desk.) Hear you couldn't be bothered to help old Ferret here.

PWeasley: Er, well, it . . . it wasn't quite that, Sir. It's just that we weighed up the pros and cons, and decided it wasn't a reasonable use of our time and resources.

Potter: Well, this isn't a reasonable use of my time and resources, but I'm going to do it anyway.

PWeasley: What?

Potter: This! (Potter head-butts Weasley. Weasley groans and falls backwards across his desk.) All right, Ferret! I've got to fly. Two million chicks, only one Potter. And remember, if you want something, take it. Ginny!

(GWeasley enters the office and salutes.)

GWeasley: My Lord!

Potter: I want something!

GWeasley: Take it!

Potter: Woof!

(GWeasley starts to unbutton her top as she leaves the office, followed by Potter.)

Malfoy: Git!

(Fudge enters from his office.)

Fudge: Ah, Malfoy. So you escaped.

Malfoy: Yes, Sir.

Fudge: Bravo! (Fudge notices the unconscious PWeasley.)

Fudge: Don't slouch, Weasley.

Malfoy: I was wondering whether, having been tortured by the most vicious sadist in the Death Eater's army, I might be allowed a week's leave to recuperate, Sir.

Fudge: Excellent idea. Your commanding officer would have to be stark raving mad to refuse you.

Malfoy: Well, you are my commanding officer.

Fudge: Well?

Malfoy: Can I have a week's leave to recuperate, Sir?

Fudge: Certainly not!

Malfoy: Thank you, Sir.

Fudge: Baaahhhh!

THE END


End file.
